Blind White Crabs
Beneath a cindered canopy
spread low on a pumiced scene
they mimic the clear night sky,
a sky they've never seen
but dream of, in that way
minute crustaceans dream
in air-laced pools formed long ago
by spewed out magma rivers,
now frozen lava flow.
And as their dark grows ever darker,
they wait, in silent concentration,
intent on capturing some flicker,
some impulse that will push them on,
lead them somewhere brighter,
unaware their soft external skeleton
won't protect them, not out there;
that fragile selves will perish
beyond the cold perimeter
of this desolate, blackened parish,
that small, albino crabs have no defence
in a world that's bright and garish.
And still they crowd, as if a sense
of something greater beckons,
incites them all to dance,
to forget the world of sightless ones,
to leave, and live for one brief moment
outside these darker zones,
outside their world of frozen ferment,
in some warmer, finer place
that is neither dark nor silent.
And so, in monochrome parenthesis
they show: without light, colour is useless.